Chapter 922 - This Game Is Too Realistic

**Chapter 922: The "Tsunami" Crashed on the Shore** Amidst the roaring waves of the sea, a cargo ship traversing across the ocean made its way towards Fry Harbor, closely trailing Yarman’s fleet. They were just twenty kilometers away from the Hundred Cross Strait! It was at this point that the unpredictable weather turned from clear skies to a raging storm. "Boom—!" Lightning danced on the heavy clouds above, serpentine silver flashes weaving between the splits in the sky. Wave after wave battered the ship’s hull, causing the majestic steel body to emit cries of distress as it struggled under the immense weight. Meanwhile, chaos reigned inside the ship’s cargo containers. Even the slightest movement of the ship resulted in multiplied tremors within the containers. In these containers, cramped into less than 18 square meters of space, was half a hundred-strong battalion. Villantian soldiers sat shoulder to shoulder, knees pressed tightly against their feet, cradling their rifles and packs against their chests. Waste was disposed of in a small bucket, thrown overboard during the downpour. However, with no room to maneuver, many simply relieved themselves in their clothes. And yet, this discomfort was not the worst they endured. The violent jostling left many seasick, causing them to vomit repeatedly throughout the voyage. In this regard, the Villantians were truly ruthless. It’s a feat to endure weeks in a container reeking of excrement and vomit—a torment only people of extraordinary fortitude could withstand. Still, even these hardy individuals were nearing their mental limits. Some were losing their grip on reality, while those still lucid either cursed or prayed. "Damn it! If I survive this, I’m gonna beat the crap out of whoever came up with this lousy idea!" "Heh, live to tell the tale first." "...I feel like we’re about to fall off!" "Maybe we already did." "Shut up! Our ship is moving forward!" "Do you remember the container on our left? I swear it's missing one—" "I said shut your mouths! We’re on the brink of victory! If you don’t want the past few weeks' suffering to be in vain, hold on!" Struggling to stand in the shaking container, a centurion, eyes wide with fervor, used all his might to rally his comrades. But the swaying of the ship made it difficult to even keep his footing; he had to brace himself against the container walls with both hands. Yet despite his efforts, he couldn’t keep balance. A wave crashed suddenly against the ship’s side, knocking him into the comrades surrounding him. In the chaotic interior, Pali huddled in a corner, his face pale with despair. As an infantryman of the 100th Legion, he was supposed to be heading to the front lines of the Boro Province. Then one day, his superior informed him that the staff and army intelligence came up with a genius plan they needed him to execute. And so, he transitioned from an honored infantryman to a "marine." However, the masterminds in the operations room clearly hadn’t tried sitting in these containers themselves. If given the chance, he’d love to dunk their heads in a toilet to show them how foolish they were. Outside, the storm's wrath only intensified, as if to tear the world asunder. The centurion, who had just fallen face-first into filth, finally managed to stagger upright, still trying to maintain a brave front. "We’re almost there! We’re at the Hundred Cross Strait! We're nearly there!" Pali suddenly realized this too was a kind of prayer—a way to stave off despair. If hopelessness consumed them, they might not have made it this far. A metallic clang resounded from below them, cutting through his reverie. Before anyone could react, their bodies jolted violently. "Damn—!" Pali heard a curse beside him, as a fellow soldier smacked his head against the container, seemingly drawing blood. The machine gunner nearby looked terrified. "Damn it...I’ve got a bad feeling about this." It was the tenth time he’d said this today! And at this moment, Pali shared the sentiment, feeling that their woes might not just be the storm, but submarines or other threats from the alliance. Fortunately, their container didn’t tumble off the deck and into the sea. After a bout of violent shaking, they finally sailed into calmer waters. Feeling the waves subside outside, everyone inside the container sighed in relief. “We made it…” The unfortunate guy who hit his head tended to his wound, while the ever-anxious machine gunner fell silent, seemingly asleep. Pali gasped for air, listening to his calming heartbeat, as fatigue gradually overcame him. How many times had this happened? He couldn't remember. It seemed like he lost control of his fate the moment he boarded this ship. Worse yet, those deciding his path never asked for his opinion. Where was this ship heading? What would happen to them? When would this all end? No one ever gave him answers. He’d had enough. Perhaps he’d known from the start who the real enemy was. At least the ones tormenting him weren’t those from Fry Harbor... Time crawled at the pace of a snail on a leaf, while the agony seemed to stretch on endlessly like a silken cocoon. Eventually, Pali might have drifted into sleep, or perhaps remained awake, unknowing. But before hunger set in, a fellow soldier spotted through a container crack that they were nearing the port. The squawking of seagulls heard through the container's walls hinted at it too. “We're here…” A ray of light glanced off a young man's face. Pali awoke to see the excitement in him, as if spotting the journey's end. “Shhh! Quiet!” The centurion at the front gestured for silence, clutching his assault rifle with rain-soaked hands, bracing the container door. As planned, they would attack at the first opportunity upon landing, securing the port for the southern corps and shallow-water artillery boats entering the strait. Outside, a loud mechanical hum resonated: the gantry crane's operational noise at the port, its colossal mechanical arm securely gripping the container’s sides and hoisting them off the deck. The entire process was smooth, more stable than being on deck—as though riding an elevator. Yet everyone inside was tense, gripping their rifles tightly. “Prepare…” The centurion clenched his left fist, trigger finger poised and safety off. Just then, the container landed with a jolt, making everyone sway. At the same moment, a calm yet firm voice outside proclaimed: “Listen up inside! You’re surrounded. I know you’re all clutching your guns... But if you wish to save yourselves and your comrades’ remains, refrain from doing anything foolish.” Pali was dumbstruck. Not just him, the centurion at the door was equally dumbfounded, frozen in place. Before anyone could react, the container door was yanked off with a bang. Two hulking silhouettes stood outside, bodies enhanced to resemble towering iron giants. One of them was exceptionally imposing, boasting an arm like a gorilla’s, merged with a cannon as thick as a python. The other arm had a fierce-looking chainsaw attached. Pali couldn’t help but suspect that even a tank would get slashed into halves by that frightening saw. “...Jungle Corps,” the machine gunner beside him groaned, trembling, “I’ve heard of them... A hundred of these wiped out an entire mountaintop of mutants at Ten Peaks.” The soldier with a bandaged head was stupefied, swallowing hard. “That can't be right…” Pali's eyes remained fixed on the doorway. Beyond those two iron-clad figures, a quad-barrel anti-aircraft gun loomed menacingly. The 20-millimeter cannon barrel was already leveled, and judging by the eager expression on the soldier seated behind it, armor-piercing incendiary shells were likely loaded, just waiting for any rash actions. At this point, whatever happened on Ten Peaks was irrelevant to him. If he couldn't survive this ordeal, he wouldn't even have the chance to feed the fish below. "Surrender, buddy." Midnight Chicken approached the centurion, smoothly disarming him, and tossed the rifle aside into a nearby loader before smiling at the man. "You see, it's much easier to drop the gun than to try and fight me, isn't it?" Before the modified, towering figure of Midnight Chicken, the once imposing centurion seemed like a shivering chick, and the rifle flung into the loader appeared no bigger than a toothpick. The centurion stood trembling, wanting to maintain some semblance of dignity, but his body betrayed him. Midnight Chicken paid him no further mind, instead handing him over to a comrade. He then called into the container. "Alright, everyone, unload your rifles, raise your hands above your heads, and line up to come out." "We’ll arrange for a bath... damn, I see what you're trying to do—you’re trying to stink us to death, aren’t you? Come on out." Watching their unresisting officers, Pali realized that the war, which had barely begun, was likely already over. But strangely, he wasn't filled with disappointment—only relief. It was over… And probably, he wasn’t the only one thinking this way. The comrade who peeked through the container’s crack had already noticed what lay outside. This wasn’t Fry Harbor at all; it was a desolate place with just one pier. Clearly, from the moment they set sail, the Alliance had prepared for their arrival, even setting up a gantry crane to help them disembark. Though they had suffered dearly, their hardships had ultimately turned into a joke. But these trivial matters, like the Jungle Corps' fearsome reputation, no longer mattered to him. The intimidating soldiers didn’t trouble them much, merely ordered them to drop their weapons, strip down to their underwear, and squat on a cordoned-off beach. While a few rookies were petrified, Pali felt oddly reassured. After all, if they truly intended to execute them, there would be simpler ways. Sinking them at sea or turning the container into swiss cheese seemed more efficient than lining them up on a beach... On another front, Fudilam the Slacker peeked curiously into the now doorless container. Even though he had anticipated the scene inside, he still felt a wave of nausea at the sight. "Jesus Christ... is this a place for humans?" Pichon Paratrooper shared his indescribable expression. "Not even livestock ships are this crowded. It’s a wonder these guys endured for weeks." He felt less like they were capturing prisoners and more like rescuing livestock intended for sale from human traffickers. Xiashu Laughing Bookworm squinted cynically. "Imperialists are all the same—telling sweet lies while shoving their own in the muck... The ones chanting 'Long live Villant' are the same ones who treat the Villantians the worst." Fudilam the Slacker looked at him. "Wait, the Legion is an empire? I thought it was Xilan." Pichon Paratrooper chuckled. "Come on, I could call myself Superman, right? Just because they call themselves an empire, doesn't mean they are one. Red River Alliance is a league, so everything must be equal there for the workers, right?" As the group bantered, Midnight Chicken rumbled. "Enough chatter, the next container’s arriving." The chatting group quickly dispersed, returning to their stations. "Let’s get to work." "My bet’s on fifty in the next one." "I’m going with fifty-one!" "Hehe, with my luck, I should be the one to open the next surprise..." ... Events unfolded much as Pali had imagined. With the help of two gantry cranes, the containers on both cargo ships were being offloaded one by one. Throughout, some tried to escape by jumping into the sea, but only to be herded back by aquatic mutants ashore. Those were the lucky ones. Those who swam slower never reached the rescue boats, finding their throats cut by sea monsters. This wasn’t Fry Harbor or Oil Stick Harbor, after all. The coastal waters lacked nets to block mutants, making the sea too risky beyond the shores. All the Villantians who landed were driven to squat on the beach. Adjacent to the line, a few militiamen from Fry Harbor watched the bedraggled soldiers with interest. "…To think they tried a surprise attack from a container. What were they thinking?" "Who knows." Soon, a man in an open-collared shirt approached the prisoners. He held a megaphone and addressed the bare-chested young men. "Listen up, big-noses on the beach! You’re on a stretch of coast about two hundred kilometers from Oil Stick Harbor, a... well, let’s call it Mantou Harbor for now." "As for you, you’re the harbor’s first batch of residents." "I bet some of you are thinking of escaping into the woods; maybe some already have. Let’s hold a brief moment of silence for those who didn’t wait to hear this. The forest here is home to some of the fiercest and most numerous mutants on the planet. Even with mind-interference devices, it’s hard to manage so many species." "So, don’t rely on the half-baked skills you picked up in boot camp to flee from here. If you had that kind of skill, we wouldn’t stop you. Just make sure to carry a camera on your way out; we could use the footage." "Anyway, let’s talk about matters concerning you." "Ever since your first nuclear detonation on our land, our war with you began. While you sailed here, our allied fleet, along with our submarines, annihilated your fleet and artillery boats a thousand nautical miles from here in uninhabited waters." "Curiously, all twenty ships only contained cannons. Quite diligent of you to produce so much steel, now all at the ocean’s bottom. If you’re curious about the battle, I’ll bring a newspaper some other day." "In any case, from today, this place is your new home." "Our allies wanted me to inform you that you shouldn’t treat this as a POW camp. Since you’ll live here for a long time, and more of your kind might join you, any hard work you do benefits yourselves... Though you've heard that phrase before, this time it’s true—I can vouch for that, having experienced it myself." "Moreover, a ship will dock everyday to deliver supplies. But do note, at Mantou Harbor, aside from mantou, even pickles cost money. If you don’t want to eat mantou drenched in seawater daily, it’s best you work diligently." "Yes, the Alliance demands employers pay wages to POWs. Though I think it’s wasteful, my hometown has plenty willing to work for free... if only someone’d pay for a ticket here." "But being on someone else’s land, we must play by their rules, right? You don’t really have a choice, do you?" Parched from speaking, the man took out a water bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a sip. The centurion squatting at the front asked in a raspy voice, "Who are you?" Glancing at him, the man replied nonchalantly. "Isal, former Centurion of the Imperial Expeditionary Army’s 30,000th Legion, now the mayor of Oil Stick Harbor." The centurion gaped at him, taking a long moment before blurting, "…You didn’t go back?" "Go back? Go where? The Empire’s gone. Should we join that fool Arayan in the grave?" Isal chuckled, patting the centurion’s shoulder, placing the water bottle in his hand. "This place is actually quite nice. You’ll come to like it here." With that, he left the dumbstruck centurion behind and walked towards the next squad. Meanwhile, at another location—the Alliance's Number One Settlement, a team of exoskeleton-clad guards stormed into a restaurant and pinned Greg to the ground. The moment Greg saw the group enter, he knew something was amiss and tried to escape. But as a mere trader, there was no way he could outrun these genetically-enhanced Awakens. In the blink of an eye, a soldier in an exoskeleton shimmered into view in front of him and slammed his rising figure down onto the floor. "What are you doing! Let go of me!" Greg struggled desperately to break free, but the hand gripping his arm was like a vise, sending searing pain through him. Meanwhile, Yarman, sitting across from him, calmly sipped his tea. Placing the teacup back on its saucer, Yarman sighed, unable to bear Greg's pitiful state any longer. "Give it up, Mr. Greg. At least you'll spare yourself some suffering." "You..." Greg glared at Yarman, eyes bloodshot with anger and hatred. He had invited Yarman to share a meal, intending to show him a grand spectacle. Yet, he never expected his guest to call the authorities. Right then, the radio began to broadcast the 7 PM news, the content of which starkly contradicted what Greg expected from the "Tsunami" operation. Instead of landing at Fry Harbor, the 100th and 101st Legion had disembarked at a construction site at Mantou Harbor. The contractors from Oil Stick Harbor had already prepared construction tools and bricks for these "lucky fellows" to start working the moment they landed. The guards holding down Greg didn't immediately take him away. Instead, they ensured he listened to the entire news bulletin, utterly crushing his spirit. Greg gritted his teeth, wishing he could grind them to dust. "You traitor—" "Traitor," Yarman interrupted, looking at him with a hint of compassion. "Who betrayed whom? Every Villantian in this settlement once had complete faith in you, and how did you repay them? Can you honestly swear on the Marshal that you ever considered the fate of the Villantians, even for a second?" Without waiting for a response, Yarman continued, "I only recently discovered that Wyat told me West Sail Harbor was the work of the General Staff..." Greg's face turned ashen, his trembling lips barely forming words. "He confessed..." He actually hadn't. But the expression on his face revealed everything: they were indeed involved in that event. This man... Their first reaction, upon learning the true identity of those who murdered their fellow men, wasn’t anger but fear of the information leak. Could such a person even be called human? Yarman expected to feel pain, but instead, all he felt was fatigue. "Thank you, you've satisfied my curiosity, although I always knew... The truth doesn’t really matter." The guard holding Greg looked at Yarman. "We'll take him away now." Yarman nodded. Aside from fulfilling his civic duty to the Alliance, the only benefit he received from the guard corps was this—resolving the mystery that had troubled him for so long. Now he had his answer. "Yes, he's all yours." *To be continued...*